


Still Here

by still_lycoris



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Post Gauda Prime, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_lycoris/pseuds/still_lycoris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Gauda Prime, Vila tries to keep Avon and himself alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Here

They had taken to sharing a bed.

Not in a sex way. They had tried that, three times. None of the times had worked out and they hadn’t tried again since. But they both seemed to prefer sharing a bed, even when they didn’t want sex. Vila had always liked to cuddle and although Avon had never seemed the type, he tended to cling to Vila now, his knuckles white even in sleep.

Vila had never imagined that Avon would cling to _him_.

But then he’d saved Avon’s life. Hadn’t he?

It was funny that he couldn’t exactly remember. But everything about Gauda Prime was a horrid blur now, he didn’t want to try and remember. The little bits he remembered were terrifying, pain and a chase and cowering somewhere dark with his hands over Avon’s mouth because Avon was making this sound all the time, this steady whimpering that Avon wasn’t supposed to make and Vila didn’t want them caught, he just didn’t want to be _dead_.

And he’d done okay at that so far. He’d got them on a ship. He’d stolen food for them, made Avon eat it when Avon hadn’t shown any interest. When one of the men had caught them, it had been Vila who had coaxed him into keeping them secret, offered up anything he could think of in exchange for their lives. It had worked, but he hadn’t pushed his luck. He’d dragged Avon of the ship the minute they’d docked, hidden him in a warehouse that had been locked until Vila had got his hands on it. And then he’d got to work, finding money (well, stealing it), trying to make friends with the quieter locals. He had a knack for charming people – as long as they weren’t in the trade – and he quickly managed to find a couple and spin them a tale that got him and Avon a bed for a few nights.

It had extended to a permanent invitation when they’d seen Avon. Because Avon had been a state. He had barely eaten, barely talked. He’d just sat, white and wide-eyed, not responding to anything that Vila said to him. Vila had begged, pleaded, cried, shouted, threatened … he’d tried everything he could think of to stir Avon from his blank state. Nothing had worked and Vila had begun to think nothing ever would.

“You’re going to die, you know,” he’d told Avon in a conversational way one night when he’d found Avon hadn’t eaten or drunk that day. “Soon, probably, you usually remember to drink, that’s a bad sign. I didn’t think you could possibly get any worse. Well, this is worse and I don’t know what to do. You probably know that though. Of course I can’t do anything, I’m only useless Vila. I wonder what Tarrant would do? Probably have left you by now. Dayna would be a better bet, wouldn’t she? I think she’s dead though. I think they’re all dead, only I can’t find out because I’m too stupid but I think it’s true. Just you and me now. Then me. I don’t want to be last. I really don’t want to be last.”

And he’d put his head in his arms and cried a bit, trying not to picture a future where he was all on his own, lost and scared and trying to take care of himself, and all right, he could do that, he was doing it now but he _hated_ being alone, he just hated it and he’d got so used to them all, being part of a _crew_ and he’d never have that ever again, never …

The soft touch on the back of his neck made him jump. For a moment, he almost believed someone else must have come into the room but he knew it wasn’t possible, that it was Avon, finally stirring from his self-induced coma. He had stroked the back of Vila’s neck with soft, gentle fingertips and then, for the first time in months, spoken.

“Would you like me to make it quick for you?”

He hadn’t said it with cruelty or malice or anger. Just a simple question, a reasonable offer. Vila didn’t want to be last so Avon would make it so that he wasn’t. And Vila had twisted away from the touch in terror, stared disbelievingly into Avon’s politely enquiring face.

“ _Of course not!_ How can you ask that, how can you think that? I want to _live_ , I want things to be all right, I want to be _safe_ and you’re talking like this and you, you’re supposed to be the survivor, the practical one, you’re supposed to be stronger than me, why are you saying these things, _why?_ Why can’t you, why can’t you just wake up and be you and, and think of a plan? We always wanted to be rich, didn’t we? We could be rich, you could help me steal something big and we’d have money then, we could go anywhere, somewhere really far away and we’d be safe and, and, and … ”

He’d trailed into incoherency. Avon had continued to stare, that bland, polite look. Then he’d shrugged in a vague sort of way.

“I’ll need a computer for that sort of plan.”

So Vila had stolen a computer. And then another one when Avon had told him that it wasn’t powerful enough. And then yet another, and other components too, little things that he didn’t understand or care about. It had become more and more difficult but that had been almost fun, a wonderful return to a world he’d missed. Of course, there were dangers, big ones. People were beginning to wonder about him, it wouldn’t be safe to stay in one place too long. But he knew that they wouldn’t need to, not with Avon on the case.

Avon hadn’t been right though. His focus had been entirely on his plan, when not working on that, he would sit and stare again. Sometimes, Vila would catch Avon watching him as though Avon wasn’t quite sure who Vila was, wasn’t sure why Vila was important. He couldn’t help thinking of the people Avon had betrayed in his past. Couldn’t help thinking of the time Avon had been willing to kill him. Would it be better to run now?

But where else could he go?

So he stayed and helped and lied to people about who they were and where they were going. Avon booked them a flight, found them illegal travel-passes for it. He collected them himself and Vila spent a few terrified hours sure that Avon would never make it back. When he did, Vila had practically jumped on him and Avon had given him the strangest look.

“I should be hugging you,” he’d said, which hadn’t made any sense at all. “Here’s yours. We both have false names on these so you’ll need to get used to yours. You’re Dan Grant.”

(and how long, how long had it taken Vila to think about the name, to really think about the name and identity that Avon had chosen for him? Too long, he was so stupid and he was still stupid because he didn’t know what it meant, not really. Why had Avon picked that name for him?)

“Dan Grant,” he’d said, testing the name. “And you?”

“I’m Cal Drake.”

He’d got that. Avon wasn’t so stupid as to use the name _Blake_ but he hadn’t been able to stop himself reaching for it even so. He’d tried to hide the look on his face but he’d failed and Avon had turned away, stroking his forged pass with suddenly trembling fingers as though it would bring him closer to the dead, to Blake and Cally who were lost, would always be lost. And Vila had been so scared that he would lose Avon then, lose Avon back into that impenetrable blankness that he’d come up and nudged him gently.

“Who are we then? We need to know, people might ask at any time. We have to make up a whole story, a whole life! Better get started, right?”

And Avon had blinked and then nodded, a dreamy look crossing his face and that look Vila _did_ understand because God, who _wouldn’t_ want to make up a whole new life? He settled himself next to Avon and they’d spun stories to each other, embellishing and adding, working out their lives together until that point.

They’d made up such happy lies. Avon had invented parents, a brother, a sister. He’d made them loving, kind, rich. Vila had given himself a huge family, grandparents and parents and cousins and siblings and nieces and nephews. He’d always wanted that, always envied people who had relatives. Avon had laughed at him, sounding almost normal, almost human.

“Why don’t we see them then, idiot?”

“They don’t approve,” Vila had said promptly. “I fell in love with you and they don’t think it can work. So we only speak sometimes. It makes me very sad.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Avon said dryly. He had idly begun to stroke Vila’s fingers. “I suppose my family feel the same. You’re a gold digger, probably. After my money.”

“Probably,” Vila had agreed. “Yeah, totally! Except that I fell in love with you. Madly in love. You didn’t believe me at first, you found out that originally I was spinning you along and you were hurt, you left me but I chased you and you realised I really meant it.”

Avon had burst out laughing then, a little wild, a little strange but it was _Avon_ and Vila had played up to it, looked wounded and confused and protested that he didn’t know why Avon was laughing, that it was a perfectly reasonable idea, that it was a good story, why was Avon still laughing? 

“Little fool,” Avon had eventually choked it out. “Oh Vila. Yes, all right. You fell in love with me and I am finally convinced of it and we are together now and trying to convince our families that it’s pure.”

He’d reached out then, traced his fingers down Vila’s cheek and Vila had let him, even though he hadn’t been sure, because it was Avon and it didn’t feel bad, it just felt … strange. And then Avon touched a little lower and so Vila had leaned over and kissed him.

That had been their first attempt. The kissing had been quite good, warming, pleasant, but somehow, nothing else had worked. Avon had been too rough and Vila suspected he wasn’t being rough enough. They’d ended up sort of sprawled out over each other and it had been awkward and cold and in the end, they’d just sort of given up and gone to bed. Vila hadn’t thought too much about it. Lovers was a good cover, it didn’t have to be real, he didn’t really care. It might be nice to have someone but he’d managed well enough. He’d manage now.

They had left the planet, apparently unsuspected by anybody. It hadn’t been a very pleasant travel-ship – a tiny cabin, barely space to move. Avon had chosen it, said it was better, less likely to get them caught. The people travelling there were mostly poor, quiet, downtrodden. They had no interest in Avon and Vila, it was easy to pass amongst them unnoticed, uncared about. Vila hadn’t been able to resist sometimes speaking to people, finding where the drink was kept, trying to make people laugh. Avon preferred to stay in their tiny cabin, curled up with his computer, quiet and withdrawn. Vila hadn’t known if he should worry or not.

He worried far more when he’d found Avon not in the cabin. He’d crouched on his bed, telling himself not to go out and look, to leave Avon to do whatever he wanted, but it was hard, what if Avon was gone, what if he got caught, what if, what if, what if …?

Avon had returned, safe, but drunk, horribly, horribly drunk. He’d collapsed onto his bed and clutched at Vila when Vila had come close, trying to find out what was wrong with him.

“They blame me, Vila. They blame _me_. They _know_.”

It had taken a long time to coax anything out of him. He’d just kept repeating it over and over, rocking back and forth, clinging to Vila’s arms. Vila had sat with him, tried to comfort him, confused and lost and terrified of this strange, lost Avon.

He’d pieced it together eventually from the things that Avon managed to choke out. That Servalan – or some other high official but he betted it was Servalan – had oh-so cleverly spread the story that it was Kerr Avon who had killed Roj Blake. That resistance was futile because the people running it couldn’t even stay alive amongst themselves. Kerr Avon was a wanted man, both by the Federation and by any last vestiges of the rebellion – and both wanted him dead.

It was a good plan, Vila had to admit. The Federation were clever, they’d always been clever. Once Avon might have appreciated it too but now he seemed lost, miserable, wretched. All Vila could do was offer comfort and pray that Avon would be all right in the morning.

He was and he wasn’t. He no longer sobbed, he dealt with his hangover well, he didn’t return to the silent, lost creature that he had been before. But he was quieter again, he didn’t laugh when Vila played the fool. He huddled with his computer, playing with it almost constantly. Sometimes, Vila didn’t think he was even doing anything with it, just immersing himself in a world of circuits and links and information that made sense, that required no emotion.

That information was helpful to them though. Avon knew things, passed on things that Vila needed to know, about troop movements, about what was on the Federation computers. Vila had never dared ask about their friends. He knew Avon knew. He wanted to be able to pretend. Pretend that they were okay, that they had escaped, that they were on another planet somewhere, happy and free.

The home Avon had arranged for them was good though. Small but lush, full of things that Vila had never imagined owning in his life. He’d bounced around while Avon had laughed at him, looking more relaxed than he’d looked for … well. Years.

That had been their second attempt. They’d both drunk a lot to celebrate their new home and when Avon had grown tired of watching Vila leap around, he’d simply pulled him down onto his lap and started to kiss him. Vila had been happy to go along with it, dizzy and gleeful and glad to feel Avon’s warm hands on him.

It hadn’t really gone anywhere though. Too drunk, too tired, too new. Just kissing and fumbling until Vila had basically fallen asleep on Avon’s shoulder. They’d stayed cuddled on the sofa and it had been strange to wake up with Avon’s arms around him. Strange to realise that it was real, that he and Avon were living together, that they’d actually made it work. So far.

It had been scary. Still was scary. Vila couldn’t quite believe that they had pulled it off, that they wouldn’t be caught, that people weren’t waiting. Avon had explained patiently and less patiently that they were fine, that his work couldn’t be traced, that the money was theirs, the house was theirs, nobody had any reason to check on Drake and Grant. That they could stay there forever, rich and content.

Except the last part was apparently beyond their reach.

Vila tried to pretend he was happy. All the time, he reminded himself that he didn’t have to be scared now, that he didn’t have to live on the edge, take part in dangerous missions, be taunted and mocked by annoyed crew members. He ought to be happy, full of amazing celebration and glee. But he felt knotted up inside, confused, jumping at shadows and small noises. He couldn’t stop drinking, even though a part of him knew it could lead him into danger.

Avon never left the house. He stayed inside, prowling through the rooms. On the worst early days, nothing could make him sit and he would sleep only when his body was too exhausted to hold him up any more, simply dropping where he was and usually sleeping on the floor. On better days, he curled in his computer room, surrounded by wires and boxes and humming things that Vila didn’t understand and Avon wouldn’t explain. Sometimes, he snapped at Vila or shouted and once, he’d slammed him against the wall when Vila had come into the computer room and dislodged something. Vila had panicked beyond all reason, struggling from Avon’s grip and cowering at his feet, begging and pleading and promising to do better. Avon had simply stood there, staring wordlessly down at him, his eyes unfocused as though he didn’t know who Vila was any longer.

Vila hated that more than anything. What if Avon forgot him? What if Avon decided he didn’t need Vila any more? Would he kill him? Would he hand him to the Federation? Would he do something worse that Vila hadn’t thought about?

That had been the real reason he’d tried to coax Avon into sex the third time. A feeling that if they were together, it would be fine, Avon would protect him, want him, take care of him. It had worked for him before.

Avon had seemed willing enough to go along with the clumsy seduction. In fact, he’d seemed happy with it, kissing and touching and leading Vila to the bedroom willingly. Vila had been happily nuzzling Avon’s neck, enjoying the gasps and murmurs that were escaping from Avon’s lips. He’d nibbled and Avon had twitched and it had taken Vila a second to register that Avon had gasped out “Blake, please.”

Vila’s hands had stilled. Avon had gone rigid beneath him. Vila had been trying to say that it was all right, that he didn’t mind when Avon had howled, an animal howl of pain and rage and had thrown Vila off him, sending him sprawling to the floor. 

Vila hadn’t dared stay. He’d fled, cowering in the dark in one of the other rooms, unable to block out Avon shouting; at himself, at Blake, at Servalan, at the universe that had rendered him so lost. At least he hadn’t cursed Vila. It was one of the few things Vila had clung to as he’d crouched there. Avon hated himself, he hated Blake, he hated the worlds but he didn’t hate Vila.

Vila needed Avon not to hate him. Vila needed Avon to … to be Avon, he needed Avon to be … he didn’t know what Avon to be. He didn’t know anything any more, he knew even less than he had on the Liberator or on the Scorpio. He didn’t know why he felt so lost, so scared. He didn’t know why he couldn’t bear to lose Avon. 

Eventually, Avon had fallen silent and Vila had finally crept into the room. Avon was curled up on the bed, arms over his head, not so much sleeping as in a stupor. Vila had covered him up, stroked his hair a little but Avon hadn’t responded and in the end, Vila had left him alone.

It had been nearly two weeks before Avon had spoken to him properly again. He had spent his time huddled in his room, wrapped in his computers, only snapping when Vila tried to talk to him. Vila had responded by spending longer and longer out until one night, he’d passed out and woken to find himself stuck and avoiding patrols for hours. By the time he’d reached home, it had been late the next day and he’d been tired and hungry and not really wanted to be slammed against the door by a screaming Avon.

“Where were you? _Where were you?_ You useless imbecile, were you just out _drunk_ you worthless, stupid animal, you’ll ruin everything, how could you, I wish they’d caught you, you stupid, you _stupid_ … ”

But even as he shouted, he was clutching at Vila, desperately tight, nails digging into Vila’s skin and when Vila shyly reached up to touch his hair, Avon melted against him, shaking and clutching and still telling Vila he was a fool, an idiot, a pointless waste of space, but Vila knew that what Avon was really saying was _Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, I need you, don’t abandon me_.

He wouldn’t abandon Avon. Couldn’t, really. He needed Avon. His greatest fear was that Avon would abandon him. But maybe … maybe Avon’s greatest fear was that Vila would abandon _him._

Avon crawled into his bed that night, clung to him tightly. And he’d continued to do that. Vila let him. Vila liked it.

It was an uneasy existence. But he was rich and he wasn’t alone and maybe it would all tumble down around Vila’s ears one day but maybe it wouldn’t, maybe he could just keep on living and somehow, everything would be okay.

Avon stirred beside him and those white knuckles loosened then tightened, as though trying to keep Vila close. Vila reached up and petted his hair.

“Still here,” he said and felt Avon relax again.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 livejournal 12dayschristmas challenge


End file.
